good

January 19, 2005

i’d like to give the world a hug.
Things are just okay right now. It’s not fantastically-wonderful-gotta-laugh-out-loud-it’s-so-good sort of good. But it’s not horribly-aweful-I-can’t-think-I-want-to-cry kind of bad either. In fact, it’s not really bad at all, in anything but a mild sort of way. *hugs self* I’m gonna go make hot chocolate. brb.

While that’s cooking, I think I’ll ramble on about the snow.
It’s been impossibly cold lately. The wind chill was below zero pretty much all day, and walking even to west quad was an issue. But then the clouds came along and blanketed the world, holding in what small vestige of heat remained, so that now it’s 1am and the wind chill is only zero. It started snowing sometime tonight, probably around midnight. Because it is so cold, the snow is not big fat poetic fun childish flakes. It’s small and grainy and shines like Lake Michigan in the perfect late summer sun. There’s a thin layer softly coating the ground, but more is falling every second. It’s so fast and so hard that the sound is clearly audible, even here in this awefully loud college town. I walked up the way to south quad and sang “Winter Wonderland” while clapping the beat in my gray-gloved hands.

My hot chocolate is done now. It’s been done for a while actually. Now I ought to sit at the window with nothing but a candle lighting the room watching the snow fall and thinking of someone who is far away doing something important and how he’ll be coming home soon to wrap his arms around me and keep me warm from the snow, far warmer than hot chocolate ever could do. This just seems to fit.
The Wallflowers are singing now, and then I think perhaps Bob Dylan. Someday I’ll find this person who will make me sit at the window waiting for him to come home, but until then I’ll listen to soft music and drink hot choolate and be happy with things being okay.

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Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.

"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."
— Charles Bukowski